


Falling Through

by thosepreciouswalls



Series: The hitter and the hunter [4]
Category: Leverage, Supernatural
Genre: Adventure, Crossover, Friendship, Gen, Hiking, Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, Parker and Hardison stays at home, Supernatural - Freeform, forest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-04 13:16:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3069494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thosepreciouswalls/pseuds/thosepreciouswalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean is very sure something supernatural's going on, and Eliot is equally sure that Dean is insane. Sequel to Leaves of Trust, Blown Back and Escaping Ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is New Years eve for me, and I figured I will celebrate by posting a brand new story in the Hitter and Hunter’s verse. This is number four in the series and is set after Escaping Ways. Just like in Leaves of Trust the first chapter will be from Parker’s point of view and the others will be Eliot’s PoV. In total this will have nine chapters and since the whole piece is already written I hope to post chapters every other day.

_“…only two ends on a rope you know, so while the others got tied in I was starting the campfire. I was facing the lake so I didn’t really see, I just heard this noise and when I turned around they were already dead. God, there was so much blood. And then the wolf was coming for me but the impact sent us over the cliff and into the lake.”_

_The sound of voices makes Eliot slow down, just out of view from Josh’s porch. He has no idea who the kid might be telling his story to this time, and as such it feels appropriate to give him time to finish before barging in. At least Eliot is bringing good news; they’ve finally managed to finish the job and transferred the insurance money Josh is entitled to into his account._

_“I think the cold water startled the wolf worse than it did me. I don’t know, it took off swimming for the shore and disappeared up into the forest. The adrenaline got me back up the cliff to camp. I didn’t realize I’d been hurt until I was on the phone with 911.” There are still traces of shock in Josh’s voice, Eliot doubts they will be gone anytime soon._

_“This…” There’s a small hesitation. “…wolf, how would you describe it?” Suddenly Eliot’s certain he knows who this second voice belongs to._

_“It was huge, dark grey I think; the memories are sort of foggy. The teeth and eyes took my focus from the rest I guess.” Josh’s voice has a distant tone._

_“I get the teeth, but the eyes?” The question sounds innocent enough but Eliot is certain it’s not._

_“Yeah. There was this weird thing with the light. I mean don’t get me wrong; I know the sun was setting behind me and I was terrified and whatever, but to me they looked red.” Silence falls for a second. “Maybe you can leave that out? Makes me sound like a nutcase.”_

_“Sure man, I’ll only publish what’s okay with you.” Eliot needs to hit something soon, preferably Dean bloody Winchester._

.oOo.

They turn off the highway nine minutes and forty-two seconds after Alec managed to get a lock on the GPS in Dean’s phone. Eliot’s behind the wheel. If Parker had been driving she estimates they would have been here one minute eight seconds ago. She hopes the slow ride doesn’t mean Dean’s already gone.

The case they’ve just finished off has taken them away from Portland to some back-water town that Parker never manages to remember the name of. She _does_ know that the only bank office is ridiculously easy to break into; she estimates she could do the entire job in thirty-eight seconds. Not that she will of course, there’d be no fun in it.

Only one interesting thing had happened in this speck-on-the-map and that was half an hour ago. Eliot had been back to Josh’s to tell him they’d worked it out with his insurance company. There, in one of the wicker armchairs on Josh’s porch, Eliot had found Dean Winchester.

Eliot had been annoyed, Parker had been elated, and Hardison; well he’d been too focused on his computer for Parker to know what he’d been. Apparently Dean’s phone was extra tricky to track or something.

The parking lot they’re turning in to is the preferred trailhead for people going up to the cliffs where Josh was attacked. Parker wonders what Dean could possibly want up there, why he doesn’t let the park rangers deal with the wolves. Eliot parks their rental three squares away from the Impala and they step out into the afternoon sunlight. The air still has the chill of early spring to it.

“Isn’t this a swell reunion.” Dean statement is dry and watchful, spoken with his arm crossed over his chest as he leans against his car.

“It is.” Parker agrees, and she honestly means it.

Parker might only have met him twice, but to Parker Dean has become and will always be family. She can’t say she knows a lot about the concept, given her life before Leverage, but Parker knows this. It is simple. When Eliot was in trouble they’d asked Dean for help, and he never questioned why, only where. What else could she need to know?

Dean sighs. “So what? You’re here to nag me about lying to your client? Tell me I’ve been mean and have to apologize?”

“Actually…” Hardison starts but Eliot cuts him off before he gets a chance to say whatever it is.

“You’re going up there.” It’s not a question, and Eliot doesn’t even try to pretend it is. Parker believes that’s a good sign since she’s noticed that Eliot mostly pretends with people he doesn’t like.

“And?”

Eliot makes a point of studying the other man from head to feet, and then back up to meet green eyes. He raises an eyebrow. Parker’s seen him do almost exactly the same thing in bars, with girls. It makes her want to laugh.

Here and now it’s a clear enough hint about what Eliot thinks about Dean’s gear. Parker agrees, jeans and a cotton shirt are no clothes to be hiking in. The duffel only further proves Dean’s not really planned this excursion. The stony look on Dean’s face deepens.

“The sun sets in five hours and 48 minutes.” Parker provides. She says it because it’s true, but also to diffuse the situation. She’s still learning the finer nuances of human interaction, but even she can tell things might get ugly fast between her two friends. “It will be dark hours before you get there.” Parker continues and looks at Dean.

“Darling.” Dean gives Parker a Cheshire smile. “Don’t you know all the really good things in life happen after bedtime?” It can be incredibly annoying how he keeps shoving them away with witty responses and fake grins.

“Like dying?” Parker sings back, big happy smile in place. The difference is she’s completely serious in her wording.

“Look.” Dean sounds more tired than anything. At least he’s dropped the act. “There’s something up there ripping humans to shreds. It _needs_ to be dealt with.”

“But not tonight.” Parker’s softening too now, smelling victory. Remote locations, bad gear, falling darkness, erratic spring weather and rabid wolves aren’t a combination to be taken lightly. She wonders how she can make him see that he’s family now. That he can’t go out on suicide missions in front of her and think she’ll accept it.

“Wait ‘til tomorrow morning and I’ll come with you.” Eliot speaks up beside her. “It’s not the terrain or the time of year to be hiking alone.” Parker has no idea if it is Eliot’s intention, but she realizes this is how you do it. This is how Dean can know they’ve got his back just as much as he had theirs.

Dean’s eyeing the hitter carefully, and Parker’s watching Dean. She’s trying to figure out if Eliot’s doing this to repay his debt since the last time or because Dean’s part of his family to.

“Fine.” Dean concedes and Parker sees an opportunity.

“I want to come!” She’s practically bouncing at the idea, it’s amazing in so many ways. “I want to climb in the mountains! Are you coming too?” She turns to Hardison but before he can answer Dean cuts in.

“No.” He says. “And neither are you.” He gives Parker a steely look.

“Why? If Eliot can then why can’t I?” She asks the question even if she thinks she knows the answer already.

“Cause _you_ can’t defend yourself.” As she thought.

Parker feels like a five year old. “Yes I can.” She says, but she knows it’s a modified truth. Eliot has taught them self defense, armed her with the tazer, and then told them to always run or hide as their first choice.

There’s a glint in Dean’s eyes just then, and he drops his duffel to the ground with the clang of weapons. Parker glances at Eliot to see what he’ll do, but he remains impassive. He feels coiled though, and she trusts he’s prepared to intervene.

Dean unzips the duffel and draws out a saved-off shotgun with one hand and two shells with the other. He throws the weapon to Parker who catches it with what she suspects is an undignified “umph”. The piece feels strange in her hands, heavy and cold.

Juggling the shotgun Parker only manages to catch the first shell, the other lands in a patch of grass behind her. She stands still, hands full, with absolutely no idea what to do next.

“Come on then missy.” Dean’s tone is close to mocking. “That tree right there, is about to attack and rip your throat out.” Dean points to a lonely birch 30 feet to Parker’s left.

The thief turns to look at Eliot but he simply shrugs. It’s up to her. She doesn’t know what to do.

“You can’t…” Hardison seems to have found his voice again but Eliot shuts him up with a look.

Parker gets it. Dean and Eliot have a point and they’ve made it. The main concern isn’t just that she and Alec aren’t physically capable, it’s the _hesitation_. This, right here is what will kill them. It is what makes Eliot and Dean different.

For a second she thinks that it shouldn’t be impossible, maybe not even hard, to wash the hesitant stage away. To learn to react on instinct the way they do. Then she glances at Eliot again and realizes that if she does it might be the worst day of his life.

Interaction might never be Parker’s strong suit, but she has always been able to read people and Eliot shows their team so much. That’s why she knows that he hates the violence, even as he loves it. She’s seen him shine after a good brawl, but she’s also seen him come back with dark eyes and a heavy soul.

Like during the whole mess with Moreau, when she’d hardly been able to recognize him. He’d come back from that warehouse with wet stains from the knees down and the smell of fire in his clothes, and it had been weeks before he jokingly threatened them again.

Not one to back down from a challenge Parker peers down on the shotgun. It looks pretty self-explanatory. She has to put the shell she’s holding down on the ground to get the double barrels open, but once that’s done the shells go in easily enough. On the first try she misjudges the force it takes to close the barrels, but then they’re closed and she lifts the firearm as she swings toward the tree.

“Stop.” Eliot says, the second before she fires. Since it’s Eliot she listens. “Your stance is all wrong; you’ll hurt yourself with the recoil.” He steps up behind her, moves her foot back and makes sure the butt of the rifle rests firmly against her shoulder.

“Only if you want to.” Eliot reassures her. Parker answers by pulling the trigger, twice.

Whatever the shells were loaded with it’s not lead, and Eliot looks over to Dean as he pry the weapon from Parker’s hands. She does her best to appear calm and cool but knows she crackles of adrenaline. It’s the first time she’s actually fired a weapon and it’s a rush alright. Not as good as jumping of buildings, but she can see the appeal none the less.

“Salt rounds.” Dean answers Eliot’s unvoiced question while Eliot in one smooth move cracks the shotgun open, removes the empty casings, closes the barrels again and tosses the weapon back to Dean. Or at Dean, Parker’s not really sure.

“You’re an ass.” Hardison points at Dean.

“Maybe.” Dean agrees. “But I believe I’m an ass who made his point.” He looks at Parker and she nods in answer.

“Can I _learn_ to shoot though?” She looks expectantly at Eliot. “So I can come next time?”

“No.” He simply says, not that Parker is surprised.

“Why not?” She can’t help but question and Eliot sighs.

“Because.” He says but doesn’t elaborate. She doesn’t know where his extreme aversion to guns comes from, and she doesn’t think it’s a good idea to press further.

Eliot and Dean decide to meet up again the next morning. Nine AM is a much more reasonable time to set out on a hunting trip. The car ride home is filled with Hardison’s slightly hysterical chatter about the event and Parker still on a buzz from firing her first weapon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m blown away with the response I got for the first chapter during these two days. Thank you so much! Lots of virtual cookies and mental hugs go out to anyone who has commented, followed, given me kudos or otherwise made their appreciation or interest knows. It means everything for me and while it’s not what keeps me writing it’s my fuel for going through spell checking, grammatical research, dictionaries and webpages to make this available to you in a form that’s readable.   
> Now I give you the next chapter and hopefully you will like it, here we go:

Nine o’clock rolls past with no sign of Winchester, and if not for the absence of the Impala Eliot would think he left the evening before. The air is heavy with unshed rain, but the forecasts promise progressively clearing skies over the next few hours. Eliot hopes it’s true.

With no decent flights and over four hours to drive back to Portland it had been a hard choice last night whether to go back for his usual equipment or just buy what he needed locally. In the end familiarity had won out, and Eliot spent most of the night in the rental car. It was worth it to have stuff he knew could stand against the fickle conditions of April.

If this had been any kind of normal hike, Eliot would have coordinated with his companion for food and equipment. As it is his fast glance into Dean’s duffel yesterday told him he’d better bring everything himself. The only useful stuff he’d seen in there were a sleeping bag and a matchbox.

When Dean finally makes it to the parking lot it’s fifteen minutes after the agreed time. He makes no excuses, simply rips the duffel from his trunk and locks the car.

“No entourage today?” Dean scans the open space as if expecting Parker to hide behind a lamp post.

“Dropped them off at home.” Eliot admits. “No point for them to sit around here waiting.”

“And of course it has absolutely nothing to do with keeping Parker away from the mountain?” Dean grins at Eliot.

“Nothing at all.” Eliot agrees.

“I can hear you, you know.” Parker’s voice trails from Eliot’s ear bud. “And I still think it’s unfair I can’t come! It’s supposed to be some totally awesome climbing up there.” She’s pouting. Eliot can’t believe he left the transmitter on.

“Behave and I’ll take you some other time.” The look Eliot receives from Dean at his seemingly random comment should really have been eternalized.

Parker makes a semi-agreeing sound and Eliot takes what he can get. “Hardison, you there?” He asks.

“Yeah man, and you owe me for leaving me with her, she’s crazy!” Eliot can’t find it in himself to feel sorry for the guy.

“She’s you girlfriend, deal with it.” Dean looks as if he might burst out a laugh but he quells it. “Now, I told you to stay out of my head. Disconnect me, keep me disconnected, and if I hear any bitching from any of you that ain’t a life or death thing I’ll crush your ear bud, okay?”

Hardison makes a strangled sound, and it’s funny how he can worry more about his electronics than he does about his girlfriend. Then again, Parker’s pretty good at taking care of herself.

“Now I’m cutting out my transmission. Cut out yours!” Eliot wastes no time to do exactly that and a second later he can hear the silence of Hardison having removed him from the main loop.

“Trouble in paradise?” Dean’s question make Eliot wonder – again – why he hasn’t broken the man’s nose yet.

“Shut up.” Eliot requests eloquently, which makes Dean’s smile even bigger.

“Take this.” He adds, and throws Dean the extra backpack he’s brought. It’s big enough to contain the stuff from Dean’s duffel along with the rainwear, change of clothes ( _no_ cotton) and dried food Eliot has already stuffed in the top and side pockets. “I’m not in the mood to be slowed down just ‘cause you can’t pack decently.”

“You’re such a sissy.” Dean complains, and for a second Eliot’s certain he’ll refuse. Not that it matters to him how Dean chooses to carry his gear, but he really wants Dean to bring the stuff already in that backpack. They are simple things that might be the difference between life and death if the weather turns bad.

“Whatever.” Dean concedes after a few seconds of unrelenting silence. As he repacks Eliot gets a good look at the impressive array of weapons being brought on their trip. He can’t help but wonder if he should be more worried than he is.

The trail is easy enough as they set out. This close to the parking lot it’s still well trodden by dog-owners, cross country runners and miscellaneous nature-lovers. Eliot’s not sure if it’s because of courtesy or paranoia that he allows his heavily armed companion to take point, but maybe it doesn’t matter. He does hope the man knows where he’s going.

It takes them thirty minutes to get away from the constant buzz of the interstate. Eliot can feel the tranquility deep in his body with aching familiarity. Vast mountains and never-ending woods have always been his default place. It’s where he goes when the reality of his life catches up. He stays the night - or week, or even month once - and it always soothes his frayed nerves and allows him to come back with new energy.

They stop for lunch around one o’clock, in a clearing that gets glimpses of sunshine in between the clouds. For once the weather forecast seems to be correct. Dean digs out a bag of M&Ms and Eliot wants to slap him.

“That’s not food.” He says instead.

“What?” The word is slurred around a handful of the offensive candies. “It even got peanuts!”

Eliot sighs, but leave him be. Instead he brings out his camping stove and prepares some decent lunch for himself. If Dean ends up with low blood sugar and no energy before they reach their camp it’s his own damned problem.

While the water heats to boiling Dean roots around in his backpack. “You carrying anything?” He throws over his shoulder to Eliot.

Out of spite Eliot nearly rattles of the full contents of his backpack, the question is ridiculously generic. Of course he knows what Dean actually means, and decides to simply answer the intended inquiry.

“Survival knife, kitchen knife and a hand axe.” The wilderness is really the only place Eliot carries any kind of weapons, mostly out of necessity. He does however try to keep them to a minimum.

“Okay.” Dean says. “All steel?” He begins to throw stuff from his backpack in a pile.

“Yeah.” Eliot agrees, he can guess where this is going. It’s a hard choice if it’s annoying or honoring that Dean seems set on arming him.

Two knives have found their way to the ground, followed by two flare-guns, a water bottle, a Colt, a small leather pouch and the sawed-off Parker shot the previous night.

“Look.” Dean says. “I know you don’t believe me but humor me, okay?” Eliot doesn’t answer, won’t promise anything with firearms in the picture. Instead he looks at Dean and waits for him to continue.

“Everything points to this being a black dog, or hound if you will.” Eliot doesn’t ask what _everything_ is. He thinks he prefers not to know more about this madness than absolutely necessary. “They’re semi-corporeal spirits in the shape of big dogs. Luckily they’re rare in the States.”

“Lore says iron will kill them, through the heart most likely. The bullets in the gun are pure iron, so’s this knife.” Dean gestures to the larger of the knives. “In the bag there you have Goofer dust. It protects you from hellhounds – who’ve been bred from black dogs – so it might be worth a shot. Pour it in a circle and step inside, maybe they won’t be able to get you.”

Eliot takes a deep breath and tells himself sternly not to argue with Dean. The smiling man is clearly insane and Eliot is seriously considering turning around and going back. But he doubts Dean can be convinced to leave his prey and Eliot still can’t bring himself to leave the man out here alone. Dean’s too ill-prepared for that.

“And the rest?” Eliot asks instead.

“I might be wrong and it’s not a black dog.” Dean shrugs. “If it moves faster than your eye can track and is sorta humanoid, shoot it with the flare gun. Fire’ll be the only thing to stop it. If it’s a werewolf it’s completely corporeal, and the other knife’s silver. Wouldn’t recommend getting close enough to it to stab it in the heart but I only have silver bullets for one. If it’s anything else you go for the salt-rounds, the holy water or the iron and hope for the best.”

“I’m not taking the firearms.” Eliot says, because he must say something.

“Yes you are.” Dean simply answers, as if it’s indisputable, _as if it’s that easy_.

As a distraction Eliot pours the now boiling water into the package of what will soon be spaghetti Bolognese and stirs it with his fork.

“No, I’m not.” He stares at Dean, trying to make him see how this goes far beyond his limits. Even carrying knives in this way is pushing it.

“Don’t be an idiot.” Dean’s getting irritated. “Even in your world you are going up against rabid wolves. How do you plan to keep a pack of them away from biting distance with a knife? Cause I ain’t all that hot on calling you a chopper when you’ve lost a chunk of your leg.”

“I don’tlike guns.” Eliot grinds out. It actually goes way beyond not liking, but it’s his standard phrase.

“Deal with it! What use is it to have backup if they’re determined to get themselves killed?”

It’s a futile hope that Dean will simply understand, Eliot realizes this. At the same time he can’t explain it, won’t go there. He doesn’t want to remember - even if he can never forget - and talking would just bring the feeling closer. Instead he takes a deep breath and looks at the sky. Hopefully it will be interpreted as trying to calm down from anger, not from the squirming discomfort deep in his stomach.

Eliot knows that with a firearm in his hands there’s no middle way. A gun is only able to silence someone with a kill-shot, it doesn’t leave room for quick blows to the head and subsequent unconsciousness. If you have a gun, why even bother with the latter? It’s cleaner, easier, deadlier. It’s dangerous in two ways. Firearms make people forget hand-to-hand combat, leaving them vulnerable if disarmed, but that never was a problem for Eliot.

The other way’s worse, and far more familiar. It’s about the way the killing becomes routine, and the ease with which that routine slips into a kind of addiction. The way it makes you feel alive while it secretly eats away at your soul. Then one day if you’re unlucky (or maybe lucky, Eliot hasn’t manage to decide which) you wake up from the haze, surrounded by blood and brain substance and piles of dead bodies of men that’s more or less innocent.

“I’d rather die.” Eliot admits, looking Dean in the eye to prove his point. Because he _can’t_ take the risk of falling back into the man he used to be. Not unless lives more valuable than his are at stake. Dean can protect himself.

“It’s not like I’m asking you to shoot any humans.” Dean’s comment makes Eliot think that maybe he’s caught on to some of it at least. “Hell, don’t fire them at all if you don’t want to. Just take them if you need them.”

But Eliot can’t do that either. He doesn’t even want to _hold_ a gun due to the thrill it still brings. The incident with Moreau’s men is a not too far off example of how marvelous it felt when he was in it, high on adrenaline and the power of killing. It was also a lesson in the self-disgust that came afterwards.

“The rule’s there for a reason.” Eliot finally settles. “I’m not breaking it.”

Dean studies him for a few seconds before coming to a decision. “Fine.” It’s said with a shrug that’s probably meant to appear more casual than it does.

Eliot finds he can breathe again, but his appetite is long gone. When he forces the food down it feels like slime and tastes like sawdust. He tells himself he needs the energy and that he’s had worse, both of which are true, and finishes the meal.

They pack the gear into the agreed upon backpacks, except for the iron knife. Eliot puts that one within reach to humor Dean in something. The remaining four hours up to their camp is made in silence.


	3. Chapter 3

They reach the cliff with three hours to sunset and Eliot starts to set up camp. It’s a beautiful spot, green firs against blue water and grey mountainside. Eliot could definitely bring Parker here sometime, there’s probably even fish to catch in the lake if he’d bring a fishing rod.

Dean has settled himself against a tree in the clearing where Eliot rigs a shelter using his trusted lightweight tarp and some rope. There’s an old fireplace not ten feet from him and Eliot can’t help but wonder if this is where Josh was making his fire when he was attacked. Probably not he concludes, the climbing routes should be located a good ten minutes walk from their current location.

“So, you’ve made it your thing to be anti-social or what?” Dean picks up a pebble and tosses it at an adjacent tree. Eliot looks at him as he let his hands finish off the knot by themselves. He doesn’t offer an answer; the question is too obviously designed to rile him up.

“Forget it.” Dean says. “I’ll have a look around.” He drifts away around the lake towards the ledge where the wolves most likely made their last attack. The backpack’s still on Dean’s back, and if that’s not paranoid behavior Eliot doesn’t know what is.

The stew Eliot’s making for dinner is already simmering by the time Dean meanders his way back to camp. He has picked up a pile of firewood along the way that he unceremoniously dumps on the ground by the fireside.

“Found anything interesting?” Eliot asks.

“Nah, not really. No claw marks or anything to suggest a wendigo, so I’m probably right about it being a black dog.” Silence falls after Dean’s comment since Eliot can’t figure out anything to say that doesn’t further fuel Dean’s delusions.

“How did you plan on getting by out here on your own?” Eliot eludes the subject with a question of his own.

“I’d have managed.” Dean looks unconcerned.

“Would you?” Eliot studies Dean who looks away. “Or did you just think it didn’t matter?” Beating around the bush was never Eliot’s thing.

“If death was the end of it all…” A shrug ends the sentence for Dean. “But it isn’t. So sorry, but I’m sticking around for as long as I can.”

A hand reaches into Dean’s jacket and fishes out a flask that Dean takes several long gulps from. He offers it to Eliot who declines, it might be appropriate if at least one of them is sober.

Dean’s answer is clear as a sunny day to Eliot. No, Dean doesn’t think it matters. He might not point the gun at himself, but neither does Dean _want_ to live. It has in many ways been obvious since the day they met, after all Eliot has seen it so many times before. In others, and in himself. At least Eliot knows that it can get better, there is a way out.

“You cooking?” Dean changes the direction of the conversation with a nod toward the pot. “Is there any for me?” If Eliot didn’t know where the man’s thoughts had been only seconds before he would never have guessed it.

The other’s a grown man and shouldn’t need spoiling, but Eliot still scoops half of the stew into a bowl for himself and hands the pot over to Dean. He only brought proper food for tonight, if they’re still around tomorrow it’s freeze-dried nastiness all day long. They’ll have enough to last them three more days after that, but Eliot honestly plans to be home tomorrow night.

“Better than M&Ms?” Eliot asks innocently as he watches Dean throw himself over the food.

“Mhm.” Dean agrees around a spoonful of stew. “But I’m still having them for breakfast. If you’re nice I might let you have some.”

“Keep them. I don’t like processed crappy food and I like processed crappy candy even less.” Dean looks at Eliot, eyebrows raised.

“Dude, I bet that bag of pasta was way more processed than my M&Ms. You need to get your priorities straight.”

“I buy the organic stuff; it’s got a minimum of chemicals and no preservatives. If there’s time I make them myself, but I was a bit busy last night with going back home to pick up stuff. In your candies less than a third of the chocolate is chocolate, what do you think the rest is?”

“Sugar? Honestly man, who cares? They wouldn’t sell poisonous stuff.” Dean makes a show of taking a handful of the chocolates and stuff them in his mouth. “And they’re delicious!” He slurs around the half chewed candies as he smirks at Eliot.

“That shit is going to kill you.” Eliot watches as a shadow passes Dean’s eyes.

“Yeah?” Dean asks, daring now. “If I live long enough for my bad eating to kill me I count myself as lucky. Don’t know of any hunter who lived long enough to worry about heart attacks.”

There is just no good way to answer, so Eliot doesn’t. He doubts Dean will see the merits of staying healthy here and now. If he did he wouldn’t drink like he does. Dulling your senses is a bigger health problem than fast food and candy will ever be, at least for men like them.

.oOo.

Eliot washes up the dishes in the lake. Doing dishes isn’t his favorite pastime at home but he doesn’t mind it like this. The water is chilly enough to feel like needles against his hands and as he’s finished he sits back for a moment, rubbing them together to regain some warmth.

Clouds have once again cumulated above them and the last tinge of pink sunset is giving out to grey dusk. The rain that starts to fall is light enough that Eliot doesn’t feel it but only notices it in the dimples it creates on the water surface beside him. He picks up his things and walks back to their camp.

“We’re getting rain.” Eliot warns Dean as he spreads the kitchenware out on the ground under the tarp to dry.

“Fuck. That sucks.” Dean throws another log onto the fire, clearly aiming to keep it alive for as long as possible.

“There’s rainwear in you backpack.” It pains Eliot to admit it, but letting Dean get soaked unnecessarily is plain stupid. The response is as immediately sarcastic as Eliot knows it will be.

“Thank you mommy! Did you put juice in my lunchbox as well?” Dean looks at Eliot with a childish, hopeful expression. Eliot bites back something that could have become either a sigh or a growl.

“Idiot.” He says, but it lacks conviction. Stepping up to the fire Eliot lets it warm his hands for a second before he digs out his own raingear. He dons the jacket and return to the fireside to chase the last chill from his fingers.

“What’s the plan anyway?” Eliot looks at Dean who stands slightly hunched on the other side of the camp fire. The man shrugs.

“Wait out the night. I figured it’d be coming soon, given it hardly waited for sundown last time. Black dogs ain’t really fans of water though, so I imagine it’s hiding somewhere for now.” Dean throws a look over his shoulder at the rapidly darkening forest and Eliot can tell that despite the man’s relaxed posture he’s high-strung and vigilant.

“If we haven’t seen it by dawn we continue further west. All the past sightings and attacks seem concentrated to a valley a few hours out of here.”

There’s something Dean’s skirting around but doesn’t say, Eliot can see that. He’s getting tired of the constant stream of bullshit and omissions.

“What is it?” Eliot asks. He crosses his arms over his chest to show he’s meaning business.

“What is what?” Dean turns his back on Eliot and retreats into the shelter in surrender to dig out his own rainwear.

“What is it you’re not saying?” Eliot doesn’t believe Dean’s ignorance for a second, and the added distance in between them further proves his point. Yet neither of them are men who flee and Dean returns to the fireside before answering.

“It’s just weird…” Dean gazes at the flames in silence before continuing. “Black dogs only come out at night, haunting a specific place. It could be an old road or whatever, so it might move around but it shouldn’t stray, and it shouldn’t come out as early as sunset.” The pensive look remains a second or two before Dean snaps back. “But whatever.” He says with his perfected but fake grin. “Story time’s over, all children should go to bed.”

Eliot’s knowledge of the subject is in no way enough for him to keep up the discussion, so he drops it. He generally calls out what he sees, but there’s a difference between being candid and being nosy. Instead the conversation turns to simpler things, like why classic rock beats country and what is in the best burgers. They have long stretching silences in between the subjects, but it never gets really awkward.

In his work Eliot has had to push until it hurt, will have to again, but privately he tries to respect boundaries. That is why he choose to keep quiet when barks echo through the forest around two o’clock. The sound is far away and the light rain is still falling but Dean turns towards it so fast Eliot thinks he must have hurt his neck. If he didn’t know better Eliot might have interpreted the passing shadow on Dean’s face as fear.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the feedback, you guys are my heroes! Without further delay, the next chapter:

The tapered tops of the fir-trees are still black against a slowly graying sky when the relatively light rain let up. Eliot guesses the sunrise is less than an hour away and he’s beginning to regret having passed up the chance to sleep. It is going to be a long and tired day.

Their respite lasts no more than ten minutes after that, before barks are once again echoing through the forest. Eliot thinks maybe it’s not wolves they are dealing with after all, they usually don’t bark like this, a pack of wild dogs seem far more likely.

“Fucking shit.” Dean’s eyes are widened enough that it’s noticeable and even if he tries to conceal it his whole posture istense. “There’s more than one.” Eliot can’t see what’s so shocking.

“Yeah?” He says. “Canines usually run in packs.”

“Not black dogs.” Dean breaks off and turns swiftly toward a noise in the forest. He then seems to process that the barking still places the dogs far away. “Black dogs have only ever been seen alone. Hell hounds on the other hand… But they shouldn’t… Maybe they just weren’t demonic enough…” The string of loose thoughts is interrupted and Dean moves his focus solely onto Eliot.

“Listen.” Dean’s voice is urgent. “If it’s hell hounds they won’t be killed with simple iron. Unless they’re less demonic now that the demons are gone, but that’s unlikely. Best scenario they’re slowed down, but the only thing that’ll kill them for sure is this.” Dean draws out an ancient dagger from his jacket. He also pulls out a small pouch similar to the one he’s given Eliot and pours its content in a circle on the ground.

“Step inside.” The order is harsh but Eliot complies. He has no faith this circle of dust is going to keep the dogs from him, yet fighting about it seems pointless.

Dean turns and makes a beeline for his bag from which he withdraws two ugly pairs of scorched glasses. He puts one on and throws the other to Eliot. “So you can see them.” He simply says.

Eliot wants to sigh because this is truly insane. Still there’s something in Dean’s demeanor and in the approaching sounds of dogs that make him comply with this insane wish as well. The glasses distort his vision slightly but work well enough. He figures he can take them off when needed be.

The pack is drawing closer. Weighing in the sound at which they’re moving and the distance Eliot can bet they have minutes at the most. He’s never known dogs to be this focused on a prey from such a distance, nor to dislike rain enough to wait for it to stop.

“You stay in that circle, okay?” Dean throws Eliot a look over his right shoulder. “Until you see for certain that a bullet through the brain kills them you stay put.”

Eliot nods for answer. Despite this being just dogs, and even if he knows Dean is insane, a small worry is beginning to crawl through the hitter’s veins. This might get ugly. The fact that Dean’s just transferred the knife to his left hand to pull a gun from his waistband does nothing to calm Eliot down.

The iron dagger Dean forced him to take earlier is already in Eliot’s hand. He’s beginning to think that maybe it was stupid to leave the rest of the weapons in his backpack. Not that anything can be done about it now.

Seconds before the creatures finally breaks through the darkness and become visible Eliot meets Dean’s eyes. In the moment there’s no time for interpretation, but he knows he will see those eyes in front of him for a long time.

Years of training is the only thing that keep Eliot functional once the beasts circle close enough for him to see in the flickering firelight. Pure survival instinct shuts down his emotions, focuses his thoughts and keeps him calm. He knows he might panic later, but this is not the time.

There’s five of them. Two grown-ups and three cubs, probably about a year old. It looks like cross-breading, but Eliot’s no expert. For some reason Dean goes for the cubs first, even if they should be the lesser threats. He fires two bullets in rapid succession that drops two cubs to the ground. They twitch but stay down.

Everything’s happening at once after that. Dean is reminding him to not leave the circle. One of the big hounds is attacking, unbothered by the dust. It sinks sharp teeth into Eliot’s arm. The pain hasn’t yet passed through the adrenaline as he stabs the iron knife up into the creature’s skull. It dissipates leaving the knife and hand wet with blood.

If the circle ever worked it’s been ruined by the scuffle. Eliot looks up to see brushwood moving on its own. He realizes he’s dropped the glasses. A shot rings out as he sweeps them up and puts them on. Eliot can hear a cry of pain but the now visible hound doesn’t go down. It takes two giant leaps and reaches him. He can’t help but find it unfair that both of the big ones have chosen to go after him.

Eliot throws himself out of the way even as another bullet hits the wolf. He takes half a second to hope Dean’s aim is sure enough that he never risked getting shot.

“Come on Fido, over here!” Dean throws the gun to the side, useless as it is. “Come and get me. I know you can smell it on me. I’m not meant to be here.” The tone is somewhere between taunting and threatening. It seems to work as the creature stops to watch Dean, only feet from Eliot. Dean takes a slow step towards them.

“Come on then. Hey doggie, doggie, doggie.” Eliot has time to pray the other man has a plan, then the wolf has made up its mind. It’s going for Dean. Eliot goes for the gun.

The corner of Eliot’s eye catches the wolf standing over Dean. He’s holding it off with one hand at its throat while he searches for the knife with the other. Eliot’s main focus is the Colt. It might not kill the large one, but one cub is still out there.

The reassuring weight is in Eliot’s hand in the last moment. He hears a sound behind his back. Turns around. Fires. The cub crashes into a heap not three feet from him. Certain it’s been at least incapacitated Eliot looks to Dean, hoping to help. He catches a glimpse of the beast with its stomach cut open only a moment before it dissolves.

Dean stays down, motionless, and Eliot’s stomach lurches as he makes his way over. It’s not an option right now, death. For one no one is allowed to sacrifice themselves for him, Eliot’s not worth it. Secondly Dean can’t leave him alone with this, he has no idea where to proceed from here.

Not much time is needed to determine that yes, Dean is indeed still breathing. He is drenched in something black that Eliot guesses is the creatures blood, but no crimson can be seen. From the looks of it Dean should be fine, but he isn’t. Around them the forest is waking up to a new day, and the birds are beginning to chirp. Eliot doesn’t think he’s ever felt so lost.

Crouching next to Dean Eliot places two fingers on his throat, stubble scratches his fingertips but underneath the skin a strong, rapid pulse can be felt. Behind the closed eye-lids Eliot can see Dean’s eyes moving, as if dreaming. He wishes he’d seen what happened, but guesses Dean must have gotten knocked out at the end of the struggle.

“Come one, wake up.” Eliot demands as he tries tapping the other man’s cheekbone. He receives no reaction. “Hey, Dean.” He gives Dean a shake, then a harder one, but it’s futile. Eliot sighs.

It’s not that Eliot hasn’t dreamt about hitting Dean, it just wasn’t meant to be like this. He was meant to punch him in the face for being an idiot, not slap him to try and bring him back to consciousness.

There is not much force behind Eliot’s hand as his open palm connects with Dean’s chin, but the moment it’s done he realize he had it all wrong. The habit of crouching on his feet instead of sitting down properly is what saves Eliot as Dean explodes up to deal with the threat. It’s only pure luck the knife is left behind on the ground.

While Eliot is desperately trying to block Dean’s attack without injuring either of them he wonders how he could have missed it. It is so obvious in hindsight. If he’d just remembered that look in Dean’s eyes as the predators were closing in, he could have handled this much better. That look combined with irregular breathing, racing heart and moving eyes made it so obvious. Something - hell maybe everything - of what had happened had triggered a flashback for Dean. Eliot should have known.

Eliot blocks two attempts of punches from Dean, only to take a fist to the stomach. He steps back to regain his breathing, but there’s no time. Dean tackles him and Eliot goes with it, rolling to the ground with enough speed to come out on top for a second.

“Look at where you are, you’re not there.” It’s all he has time to wheeze around his cramping diaphragm before Dean breaks loose and they’re on their feet again.

“Oh, I know this fucking forest. You won’t trick me.” Dean’s eyes are in hard, cold survival-mode and the fact that his opponent is solely defensive doesn’t seem to have sunk in yet. Eliot can guess that wherever Dean is it’s in a forest, not unlike this one. That will make bringing him back far more difficult.

It’s hard work, defending himself against Dean’s relentless attacks. The kill-or-be-killed place he’s back in can’t have been pretty, and it gives Eliot a clue where the man might have perfected his rough but efficient hand-to-hand combat skills.

A small mistake is all it takes. With all the adrenaline pumping through his body Eliot has forgotten the deep gash in his left forearm, and he uses it – wrong side up – for a block. No adrenaline in the world could take away the sharp pain that travels up his arm when Dean’s elbow digs into the wound. Dean uses the moment to plunge into Eliot and bring them to the ground.

This time Dean ends up on top. He presses Eliot’s lower body down with his knees and legs and wraps his left hand around Eliot’s neck. When Dean’s right hand finds a stone on the ground Eliot knows this will end soon enough, one way or the other.

Eliot’s injured arm isn’t strong enough to stop the stone’s path altogether but he knocks Dean’s hand to the side, making the stone hit the ground to the hitter’s left. At the same time he uses his right hand to rip Dean’s grip from his throat and bring him out of balance. Dean’s upper body crashes down against Eliot.

“ _Look_ at me.” Eliot stresses. They’re close enough now that Dean shouldn’t see much else, taking the forest out of the equation.

If Eliot had wanted to he could have used the momentum to try and swap their places, but he doubts it would do much good. He needs to bring Dean back, preferably before this ends in disaster, and he guesses that holding the man down is not the way to go. Eliot knows his own reaction to being restrained, and he surmises Dean’s isn’t much different. For Dean to break away now shouldn’t prove very difficult, between his lack of oxygen and injured arm Eliot won’t be able to hold on for long.

“You know me.” Eliot searches Dean’s face for a hint of recognition. The struggle slows down, as if Dean’s fighting with himself.

“Benny?” Dean asks, his eyebrows furrowed. Eliot hopes that means he’s coming back and loosens his grip on Dean’s arms slightly.

“Eliot.” The hitter corrects him. Dean’s eyes sharpen, and then close as he rolls to the side. Eliot lets him go.

A few second pass as they’re trying to regain their breaths. Eliot notices how wet the sprigs beneath him are, and how a root is digging into his shoulder blade. The sun seems to have risen somewhere beyond the clouds, and the treetops above him is bathing in yellow light.

“You back?” Eliot asks, turning his head to the right to look at Dean. The other man is lying on his back as well, close enough to touch. Eliot doesn’t.

Dean only nods as answer, his eyes still closed. He keeps swallowing compulsively in a way that makes Eliot believe he’s fighting bile rising in his throat. “Want to talk about it?” Dean shakes his head and Eliot looks back up at the treetops.

Eliot respects Dean’s standpoint. It could just as well have happened the other way around, Eliot can acknowledge that, and if it had he wouldn’t have wanted to talk either. In his experience talking about it seldom made things easier to bear, rather it brought all the shit up to the surface and left it there to simmer.

They lay frozen in position for several long minutes, backs soaking up the night’s rain from the ground underneath. Eliot focuses on his breathing and tries to calm his spinning mind. He can’t believe this night really happened, yet the sharp pain in his arm tells him it was definitely not a dream.

“The cubs?” Dean’s voice breaks the silence, and Eliot pretends it’s as strong and confident as usual. At least it’s not far off. “They still here?”

Eliot looks over, not really understanding Dean’s reasoning, but the man’s already up and moving towards said creatures. The hitter feels battered and bruised – is in fact battered and bruised – but forces himself to pay it no heed. He sits up, using a nearby tree trunk to lean against.

The ancient looking knife is once again in Dean’s hand as the man makes his way over to one of the still twitching cubs. The blade is pressed in between the ribs to pierce the heart, and the beast disappears in front of Eliot’s eyes. Even after everything he has a hard time grasping what he sees. Dean finishes of the other cubs and moves to rekindle the embers of their fire. Eliot wonders when it found the time to die down.

“What the hell was that?” Eliot waves his hand around trying to include the clearing and the supernatural wolves and the attack and everything else that has happened, sans the flashback since Dean doesn’t want to talk about that. He’s incredibly exhausted and incredibly high-strung all at once, and his arm hurts more every second.

Dean grins, and after everything that has transpired it is damn good to see that smile even if Eliot can bet it’s fake. “Well, I already told you, didn’t I?” Dean wiggles his eyebrows. “You just didn’t believe me at the time.” Eliot growls but is secretly glad at the feeling of normalcy. Dean seems to sense he needs to clarify.

“Out of all fucked up things we had a left behind hellhound that met a regular black dog, and they made sweet, sweet love and had babies. Then for sport the little family hunts and kills humans, until they were hunted down and killed by us. Just another day of the Winchester saga.”

“So the dust-circle, and the knife?” Eliot’s still unsure about where it all fits in.

“Goofer-dust keeps hellhounds out, but the one that first attacked you was the black dog. Which is why you could kill it at all. The only thing known to kill a hellhound is this…” Dean holds up his knife. “Not much else is of any use against those sons of bitches. I’d guess the puppies were incapacitated by the iron – being half black dog – but it couldn’t properly kill the hellhound part of them.”

Eliot’s head is spinning with the realization of how much he has to learn before he can feel protected again, now that there is a whole new world of threats. A sudden thought floats to the surface that makes Eliot’s blood feel like ice.

“They’re not like werewolves, are they?” He tries to keep any trace of worry from his voice but judging from Dean’s sudden shift in stance he can guess he failed. It shouldn’t surprise him that Dean seems to read him with the same ease that he reads Dean.

“Why princess, did the doggie nibble your finger?” Dean’s voice is light and teasing, but the way his focus is suddenly all on Eliot tells a different story. When the bait is left hanging Dean continues. “It shouldn’t be different from a regular dog bite, but I’d rinse it out with holy water to be sure.”

“So nothing worse than possible tetanus, blood poisoning, or rabies then.” For once it’s Eliot who fires off the smirk. He’s got all his shots of course, but even vaccinated he’ll need complimentary injections against possible rabies. It will be his seventh time.

Dean’s having M&Ms for breakfast as Eliot slices away the two trashed shirtsleeves to tend to his injury. The main gash is deep enough to need internal stitches, and Eliot hasn’t brought the right thread for that. Nerves dictating the sensory and motor functions of his left hand run through the area, and Eliot will have to get back to the civilization and do the stitches properly there. Any half decent job he can mange with the stuff he’s carrying will risk the weakness in his grip becoming permanent.

The rabies shots will force him to a hospital as soon as he gets back, Eliot knows of no other place where he can get vaccinated fast enough. He _might_ even allow the doctors to stitch his wound to save him a few unwanted questions.

After cleaning his arm thoroughly with both holy water and antiseptics Eliot tries to stem the bleeding with a compression bandage. The unnaturally white gauze stands out against the dulled colors around them. He hopes it will make do for the ten hours it will take them to pack up camp, walk back to the cars, drive the hour to the nearest decent ER and get the postexposure vaccination.

“Are we done up here?” Eliot asks Dean as he starts preparing his oatmeal. He phrases it as a general question, because admitting that _he’s_ done up here no matter what isn’t Eliot’s style.

“Yup.” Dean says, eyeing Eliot’s newly donned dry clothes enviously and trying to hide how cold he is. “As soon as you’ve finished your wholesome and nutritious breakfast we can be on our way.” Eliot has a feeling Dean’s never eaten oatmeal voluntarily in his life.

“Good. Now for God’s sake put some clean clothes on or you’ll scare people to death once we’re back to civilization. You look like you’ve butchered someone.” He doesn’t mention that Dean looks frozen, or that a set of dry clothes that’s not Dean’s lies in Dean’s backpack. Dean should already know those things anyway.

For once in his life Dean complies without fuzz, which Eliot doesn’t know how to interpret. It’s like he can’t wait to literally feed the darkened shirt to the fire and Eliot can’t help but wonder what memories are triggered by the garment. The hell hound’s blood turns to a heavy smoke that smells terribly before the fabric catches fire and is gone.

“I look like a dork.” Dean complains, looking down on himself and the functional clothes he’s now wearing.

“And you are an idiot.” Eliot adds as he finishes his breakfast. “Now help me close down the camp so we can get out of here.”

It takes them twenty minutes to get everything packed and ready to go. Eliot knows he’s pushing it when it comes to using his left hand, but he’s not good at sitting back and watching someone else work. If he’s honest with himself he also hates to look weak. So he does what he can with his right hand and helps with his left where it’s inevitable.

Getting his backpack on is a bitch, Eliot can swear the rainwater has made his stuff much heavier. As he looks up after the maneuver he finds Dean watching him, yet the man turns away without comment. Eliot is grateful.


	5. Chapter 5

Eliot is used to being able to defend himself, used to feeling somewhat safe. His civilian team worries him sometimes, yes, but he knows he is able to shield them from the worst parts of the violence. It might be going too far, saying that he is the best there is, but he’s definitely _among_ the best at what he does. Human beings no longer frightens Eliot Spencer, but today he has a new feeling of clawing insecurity and danger residing in his stomach.

There is suddenly a whole other world that’s been existing right alongside his. It’s a reality that includes things faster, stronger and more deadly than he could ever imagine, and the rules he’s used to don’t apply to them. It reminds Eliot of the first time he was shipped out, nineteen years old and suddenly realizing how it feels to be on the wrong side of a loaded firearm.

Dean - with his extensive knowledge of this reality – will only be around for a few more hours. After that he will drive off in his car and Eliot alone will be responsible for keeping himself and his friends alive. So as they walk Eliot uses the time to gain a better insight into the subject.

The list of things to learn seems infinite, but Dean promises him a lot of it can be found online via a website Charlie set up. There’s a fine line between feeling more secure or worried when you study a new danger, and Eliot’s not sure which side he falls on. What he does know is that it’s always better to find out what might be waiting for him, because that gives him a chance to prepare.

Just before lunch Eliot notices a dark stain on the dark green sleeve of his shirt and he realizes he must have bled through the dressings. It’s bad news. If the hemorrhaging doesn’t slow significantly it will be quite the hassle to drive himself to the ER, not that he hasn’t done worse things.

They stop in the same clearing as the day before. In a way it feels like an eternity ago, but at the same time Eliot thinks that maybe he fell asleep here and is just waking up. Fighting hellhounds and black dogs do sound like a weird bad dream. Dean is still eating candy instead of food as Eliot prepares his bag of rice and chicken stew.

“I’ll dig out your stuff before we leave.” Eliot promises, remembering this is where he got them. It’s against his training to wave any weapons in such a public place as the parking lot unless absolutely necessary.

“Keep them.” Dean offers, waving his hand. “I never use them.” He throws a piece of chocolate in the air and catches it in his mouth.

“You sure?” Eliot asks, because it’s not as if he can’t afford to buy things if needed be. “It’s always good to have backups.”

“Don’t worry princess.” Dean assures him. “My backups have backups have backups.” Eliot remembers that Dean seems to have lost practically everyone. If they were all hunters he can see that there’d be some weapons left over.

“Thank you.” Eliot says instead of arguing.

Before they move Dean makes a detour into the bushes and while he’s gone Eliot wraps a second bandage on top of the one he already has. He makes it as tight as he can without cutting off the blood flow to his hand. The meal contained plenty of water but he drinks almost a bottle more, trying to make up for the fluids he’s lost and keep up his blood pressure.

Eliot knows that about a pint of blood is what he can afford to lose without consequences. Having estimated that he was nearly at that line when they stopped for lunch he’s pleasantly surprised that it takes a full hour of walking before any difference can be felt.

As always it starts with slowly increasing heart rate and shortage of breath, his body trying to compensate for the loss of oxygen carriers. The hitter is in good enough shape that it doesn’t affect him much. At least not in these amounts and at this speed, he’d prefer not to have to outrun anyone. With only three hours to his rabies vaccination it’s more of a nuisance than anything.

Dean is still educating Eliot in how to deal with the supernatural and he tries to listen, he really does. Yet as it begins to feel like the road ahead of him is growing longer instead of shorter Eliot realizes he’s not taking any of it in. He listens only with half an ear, hums and asks questions when appropriate, but his main focus is on his feet and the pain in his arm.

By Eliot’s estimation they still have half an hour left to the cars when blood starts dripping from his hand. He swallows a growl. This isn’t the first time Eliot’s dragged himself out of some remote crappy location with beginning symptoms of blood loss but he swears this time is worse than the others. He analyzes the statement and finds it’s not true, sort of. The other times have _been_ worse, which is why this _feels_ worse.

If Dean wasn’t around Eliot would have indulged in a few pauses to slow his breathing and get his pulse down, but now he doesn’t want to slow them down unnecessarily. Alone he would also have the threat of death hanging over him, should he not keep walking. Knowing Dean won’t leave him to bleed out robs Eliot of what little adrenaline he’d usually have, making him feel the injury and lack of air far more acutely.

The half hour turns into forty-five minutes before the parking lot can finally be seen at the end of the path. It’s a welcome sight.

“So, where to?” Dean asks as he throws his backpack into the trunk of the Impala.

“I believe you’re old enough to decide that for yourself.” Eliot replies and presses the key to unlock his rental. He’s in no mood for games.

“Seriously, a granny with a walking frame could have overtaken you crossing the parking lot. You’re not driving.” Dean crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the car. Up until now Eliot has thought he’s done a decent job covering up how shitty he feels, apparently he’s been wrong.

“I’ll manage.” Eliot protests. “I’ve done worse. Besides, it’s stupid to leave the car here.” After all the hitter is used to managing on his own, and he knows he can make it to the ER even if he’s tired and in pain. As long as he doesn’t stand up to quickly it’s no real danger.

“Dude, there’s no way; Parker will skin me alive when she finds out. I’m sure between the two of us we can get the rental company to pick the car up free of charge.” Dean gives a wicked grin that makes Eliot wonder what sort of story he’s cooking up to sell them.

Eliot takes the space of a breath to analyze the situation. It is a good move from Dean, guilt-tripping him with his team, even if they both know the man has nothing to fear from Parker. If he’s honest with himself Eliot would rather not drive, it seems much more appealing to doze in the passenger seat for the hour to the nearest proper hospital. At the same time his old stubborn way dictates he should turn down the offer and deal with it himself.

“Whatever.” Eliot answers, but only because he wants to get moving more than anything. “But you’re responsible for getting the car back to the company.” He slides out of his backpack and puts it next to Dean’s.

“Wonderful Sunshine!” Dean throws an old blanket at him. “Just don’t get any blood on the upholstery, it’s a bitch to clean.”

The passenger door opens with a squeak that Eliot would have dealt with a long time ago had the car been his, it’s strange Dean has let it go unoiled. Eliot wraps the blanket around his lower left arm and hand before he folds himself onto the right side of the bench seat, it’s sat down enough to welcome him like a hug and he savors the feeling of being off his feet.

“Buckle your seatbelt Dorothy.” Dean says with a grin and turns the ignition. The roar of the engine coming to life can be heard only for a split second before classic rock drowns it out. It might not be Eliot’s preferred choice in music, but he’s grateful simply because the noise assures him there’ll be no talking. The question of where they’re going hasn’t come up again, but Eliot guesses Dean has known all along.

.oOo.

The grey concrete bunker that houses the ER makes Eliot think more of the Russian border than the Canadian one he’s currently close to. It has always amazed him, how hospitals manage to look like boring deaths even architecturally. His current theory is that they want to keep the unnecessary visits down, because surely no one comes here willingly.

Dean drops him off at the entrance and is gone before Eliot’s blood pressure has built up enough that he can focus on anything besides which way is up. Checking that he has an appropriate id with insurance and credit card in his wallet Eliot lets the glass doors slide open for him as he walks into the building.

Four numbers before Eliot’s is waiting for their turn, and he’s left standing for far too long before it’s his turn at the nurses’ desk. She calls his number out loud enough to bounce of all the white and yellow and slice through his head. Blood loss and lack of sleep never did wonders on his mood.

“Good afternoon Ma’am.” Eliot greets her none the less, in his politest, most trustworthy way. The things he won’t do to get away with false identities, fake insurances and illegal hunting. “My name’s Carl Thompson, I sorta had a run-in with this feral dog up in the reservation and it bit me. Guess I need rabies shots.”

Eliot doesn’t mention needing stitches, because he doesn’t, but decides to hold his left arm up for her to see. He wonders if allowing some blood to drip onto her desk will speed things up but reigns himself in. It’s not her fault he’s here, yet she _will_ have a say in how quickly he gets help and can get out. “Oh my.” She says. “We’ll get that sorted soon enough after you’ve filled in this form here…”

It takes two minutes forty-eight seconds to finish the paperwork and be directed to a plastic waiting room chair around a corner. Dean hasn’t turned up, and Eliot suspects that the Impala with his backpack in the trunk might be rolling away towards new hunts. He can buy new things, but it’s annoying none the less.

‘Soon enough’ turns out to have a pretty liberal meaning, Eliot thinks as the chair grows more uncomfortable beneath him and his arm keep hurting. When Dean still hasn’t shown half an hour later Eliot counts him out as a lost cause. He should have driven the rental instead, then he would’ve at least had a car to get out of here on his own.

When he’s finally allowed to see a doctor she has the audacity to berate him for not coming in sooner. He manages not to hit her, but lets it slip out that after _an hour_ in the waiting room he’s not to be blamed if the bite can no longer be stitched. He realizes bringing it up means he’ll have to let her do it. The physician apologizes, and since his mama never raised him to be rude so does Eliot.

“So, rabid dog huh?” She asks as she starts to remove his bandages. Her name tag says she’s Doctor Hadley.

“Yeah.” Eliot agrees.

“And you’ve had preventive vaccination?” The last of the gauze comes off and she prods the mangled area. It hurts.

“From the army.” Lying is always easiest when he tells the truth, or as close to it as Eliot can get.

“Ok.” She’s an all business no bed-side manner kind of woman, something Eliot appreciates in medical staff. He gets his first dose of complementary vaccine and after a blessingly numbing local anesthesia she gets to work on his arm. Having both hands available she does a far better job of it than Eliot could have managed on his own.

Unfortunately Doctor Hadley is a stickler for details, and she sends him off with a wave and two strong painkillers but no extra dose of the vaccine. It annoys Eliot, even if she’s simply doing her job. He would very much like to get the hell out of town and go back home, yet Hadley’s anything but convenient when she explains that either he turns up at eight o’clock the day after tomorrow or he can forget the last injection. There’s nothing Eliot can do but follow her rules and he hates it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I’ll be up before dawn tomorrow for this season’s premier skating tour I’m posting this a bit early, I hope you’ll forgive me. I’ll try to keep the 48 hour rule from this time now, meaning the next chapter will be posted on Sunday evening (GMT +1). A gold star goes out to all reviewers!

Eliot steps out of the hospital into the waning light of dusk and the streetlights blinking to life. Leaning against the side of a raised flowerbed he finds Dean, in the middle of a big swig from his hip-flask. The alcohol disappears from sight as he sees the hitter, and he stands.

“About damn time. What did you do? Faint like a girl at the sight of blood?” Dean provides another of the smiles that never reaches his eyes.

“Waited for my turn.” Eliot says. He doesn’t smile, and he definitely doesn’t bite on Dean’s hook.

It’s a fine line between gratefulness and disappointment to find that Dean has been waiting for him all this time. Knowing he matters enough that Dean won’t simply drive off is gratifying, but at the same time it is so much easier for Eliot to be alone when he’s like this. He’s hungry and tired - much more so now that the anesthesia has taken away most of his pain - and he’d like to sleep for the few hours that his arm is still numbed.

Sure, the doctor has provided painkillers for him to sleep on the next two nights, but Eliot detests them. They’re opiates and as such will slow his reactions and make him hard to wake, not a reassuring combination, he rather gets crappy but somewhat safe shut-eye.

“So Ponsy, what’s the verdict? Will you live?”

Eliot’s getting used to the feeling of wanting to punch Dean. “Yeah.” He says instead. “But I’ll need to be back in two days. The damn doc’ wouldn’t give me the shot to take myself.” Dean huffs out something that might be a laugh.

“Yeah, cause having everyone walk out of the hospital with syringes to self medicate sounds like an awesome idea. What was he supposed to do?” Dean gives Eliot’s shoulder a light shove to get him moving towards the car and Eliot can smell the cheap bourbon on Dean’s breath.

“She.” Eliot corrects him. “And she could have at least tried.” He hears he sounds like a petulant child and stops himself. Whining is for lesser men.

“Whatever. You look like shit man, I’d say food and then somewhere to crash.” Dean pulls open the driver door and gets in the car. Before he can close it Eliot grabs it, looking down over the door on Dean.

“You’re not driving.” Dean raises his eyebrows in question. “That wasn’t water you were guzzling down just now.”

“Chill Gracie, I’m way below the limit.” Dean holds his hands up in what’s supposed to be a disarming manner but Eliot doesn’t buy it.

“One; I’m not so sure about that and two; limit’s way too high anyway.” Eliot makes sure it can be heard that he’s dead serious. “If you wanna kill yourself I doubt I’ll be able to stop you, but don’t you dare risk bringing others with you.”

Dean grits his teeth and takes a deep breath, allowing his eyes to fall shut as he lets the air out. It’s a fake outer calm that effectively hides the real feelings. “Jerk.” He finally concedes and slides over to the passenger side.

According to Dean the best burgers in three states is served at a diner on the outskirts of town, and figuring he has bickered enough for a while Eliot takes them there. He’s honestly not sure he should be driving either at the moment, but at least his reaction time is only affected by lack of sleep.

The roadside diner is as far from posh as it can get with dim lights and sticky tabletops, but has drawn a fair crowd none the less. They go for one of the unoccupied booths and Eliot doesn’t even mind that he’ll have to eat fast-food. This far from lunch he’ll eat pretty much anything as long as it’s cooked and not microwaved.

While they wait for their food Dean fires up the laptop he brought inside with him, angling it so they can both see the screen. “Here’s the online database Charlie built for us.” He says and brings up a webpage. “All members can add notes but only moderators can erase things, not that I think we’ve ever done so.”

Eliot watches as Dean maneuvers past the home page with its ‘Common searches’ to a search engine to end up at the hellhound page. He begins to add a note about the continued existence and crossbreeding with black dogs.

“So how do you become a member?” The hitter asks, because he’s certain that if he learns one more thing today his head will explode. He’ll have to come back to the page and read uplater.

“You say ‘pretty please’ and then you get invited by someone who’s already one.” Dean grins at Eliot but he stares impassively back, he doesn’t do begging. If needed be he’s sure Hardison can get him into any website he wants.

“Ah fine, be that way Tardar. I’ll send you one, but promise me one thing: Don’t use it to go after anything alone.” There’s no joke in Dean’s voice this time.

“I won’t.” Eliot says, and he means it. “I just want to be prepared for what’s out there.” _I want to know I can defend my team andmyself_. He doesn’t say, because that would make him sound insecure – maybe even scared – and he’s not. Definitely not.

Dean hums and nods, and sends the invitation to Eliot’s email. The ping of the received message can be heard from his phone just as their waitress turns up with their food. Dean turns out to have been right; the burger is amazing, even by Eliot’s standards.

“So what?” Eliot asks as they’re exiting the diner half an hour later. “You have a map in your head for America’s best burgers?”

“Absolutely, and the best pie.” Dean wiggles his eyebrows. “What would man be without pie, burgers, strippers and booze ey?”

Instead of answering Eliot folds into the Impala. Dean’s point, though crude, can’t be argued with even if Eliot will never admit such a thing. He doesn’t get into another argument about who drives. As far as he’s seen Dean hasn’t had any more hard liquor since the hospital parking lot, and with food in his stomach Eliot can feel every single one of the 36 hours since he last slept.

“Just drop me off at some motel and I’ll be out of your hair.” Eliot offers as Dean sits down next to him.

“What, no bitching about drinking and driving? And here I’ve thought you had principles.”

“Fuck off.” Leaning his head back Eliot belatedly realizes there’s no headrest and has to yank it back up. His arm is regaining feeling and he’s in no mood for anything. “Drive.” He snaps when nothing happens.

“Jeez Tardar, take a happy pill.” Dean finally turns the key and rolls them out of the parking lot.

“And stop calling me Tardar.” Annoyance is such a simple feeling, Eliot thinks. It’s just too bad that Dean’s one of the few that doesn’t back off when faced with it.

“No can do, it suits you.” There’s a singing tone to Dean’s voice that makes Eliot think he really shouldn’t ask, but he does so anyway.

“Why?”

“Tardar Sauce?” Dean glances at Eliot and can apparently tell he still doesn’t get it. “Grumpy cat?”

“I will _kill_ you.” The growl is met with laughter.

“Yep, that bitch face right there, you two must be twins.” Even as he’s narrowing his eyes Eliot can’t really hold on to his anger. Dean is laughing at him honestly, freely, and the difference from all the fake smiles is immense. The action takes ten years from his appearance and lets Eliot think that maybe there’s some hope for the man after all.

The nearest motel turns out to be only a few blocks away, it’s a two storey building with a balcony walkway connecting the upper floor rooms. As far as motels go it doesn’t look too bad. Dean turns off the Impala outside the check-in desk.

“Guess I’ll see you around.” Eliot cracks open his door with what’s already becoming a familiar squeak.

“Hell no.” Dean says with enough force that it stops Eliot in his tracks; he’d thought they’d gotten along well enough to leave on good terms. “I ain’t letting you out of my sight until you are back _alive_ with your team.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.” Eliot objects. He would have preferred Dean’s objection to have been angry rather than overprotective. Eliot is a retrieval specialist and a hitter and a trained special ops soldier and he doesn’t need anyone else to keep him alive, thank you very much. It’s patronizing.

“Yeah?” Dean questions, his voice laced with heavy sarcasm. “Well I don’t need your team to come after me because you got yourself killed slipping in the shower.”

There’s something imperceptible in Dean’s voice just then that makes Eliot pause. The tone’s snide and angry but it doesn’t ring true, least of all because he knows Dean has nothing to fear from his team.

Pushing aside himself and his own problems Eliot takes a second to take in the man next to him. The white knuckled hands holding the wheel goes well with the hard-set exasperated look, but neither does well in covering the underlying fatigue. Eliot might be no-sleep-in-36-hours tired, but Dean is leaning more towards the just-another-sleepless-night weariness that Eliot knows sets in after months of next to no rest.

It’s been easily forgotten between his own injury and Dean’s wit and careless behavior, but Dean’s day has been shitty too. If he’d been given the choice between blood loss and stitches or flashbacks and triggered memories Eliot would take the former any time.

There are days, even after years with his team, that Eliot can’t stand being left in a room with himself. Days when he works at the pub or seeks out Parker and Hardison mainly to have something that drowns out his thoughts and distracts him from his past. Eliot can bet Dean hasn’t had the luxury that his Leverage years have been.

It’s impossible for Eliot to say with any certainty why Dean’s so adamant to keep an eye on him. Maybe it’s just as the man says, and he doesn’t want to risk any retribution from Leverage Inc. He could also be plain worried about Eliot and wants to know he’ll be fine. Both of those reasons are easier to wave aside than a fly.

Even so Dean might be standing on the brink of that deep dark hole that Eliot can bet he too has inside him. Dean might be grounding himself in Eliot the same way Eliot does with his friends during those days, and even if it’s a slim probability Eliot’s not prepared to gamble against it.

“I’ll go get us a room.” Eliot swings the door fully open and stands slowly, holding on to the car for a few extra seconds as the black spots clear from his vision. He hates having low blood pressure, it’s inconvenient, a security risk, _and_ it makes him look stupid.

Walking over to the reception Eliot thinks that maybe it won’t be so bad, having someone else on guard tonight. Considering he can’t stand up quickly anyway he might as well take his pain-killer for the night and trust Dean to handle whatever may happen. Not that Eliot is allowing this for his own sake of course; he’s doing it for Dean, nothing else. _And Dean’s probably doing it for you_ , a traitorous voice whispers in Eliot’s head. He pretends he doesn’t hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actually, this was meant to be the last chapter, it just turned out so long that I divided it in two. Then the new chapter sort of did the same thing so now there are still three more chapters after this one. See you in 48 hours!


	7. Chapter 7

The room is blue and smells of stale cigarettes, but the two beds look like heaven to Eliot none the less. They’re placed at equal distance from the door which is relieving, this way he doesn’t have to choose between being the protector or the protectee placement-wise. He dumps his backpack next to the right one.

“Um, Eliot?” Hardison’s voice ring from the ear bud and Eliot’s instantly worried. They should know not to contact him unless something’s wrong.

“What happened?” Eliot asks, and he can hear Dean shifting behind him at the unexpected question. He motions to his ear to show he’s speaking to his team.

“Eh, I don’t know man, you tell me…”

“Dammit Hardison!” The adrenaline is quickly receding again when there seems to be no immediate danger. “Use the bloody _phone_ unless it’s an emergency.”

“We did.” Parker provides. “You didn’t pick up.” Sinking down on the bed Eliot fishes out his phone. One missed call, how did he not hear that?

“And you had the patience to wait three minutes? What’s the urgency?” Eliot rests his elbows on his knees. He’d rather not have to deal with one of their crises right know.

“That’s what we’re waiting for you to tell us.” Parker explains.

“One of your aliases’ insurance just pinged at an ER man, are you alright?” Hardison sounds worried for real.

Foregoing the fact that Hardison obviously traces his aliases in real time Eliot focuses on the latter part. “I’m _fine_. I got a scratch and needed a rabies shot, that’s all.” He doesn’t mention the stitches, if they haven’t seen the records they don’t need to know about it.

“And stitches.” Parker tells him. “A lot of stitches.” So they have read Carl Thompson’s patience journal then.

“Yeah man, and you wouldn’t go to the hospital with two bullet holes in your body so forgive me for thinking it might have been more than a ‘scratch’.” Eliot can hear the citation marks Hardison makes with his fingers.

“Well it wasn’t, alright.” Eliot’s anger isn’t very honest and he knows his team can tell. He also knows that now is not a time to deviate from his normal behavior, it would only worry them more. “I just let the bloody doctor take care of it to keep her from nosing about too much. I think she might have had questions if I’d wanted a vaccination and had no bite mark to show.”

“Let me get this straight?” Hardison sounds bewildered. “You won’t go to the ER when you risk bleeding out, getting blood poisoning, or whatever, but when there’s a risk of rabies – and let me tell you; it’s a small risk compared to those other things –you run to the nearest hospital? It’s not that I don’t approve of you taking your injuries seriously, but that’s just ridiculous.”

“Have you seen rabies, Hardison?” Eliot jaws are tense around the words.

“Eh, no. Because no one gets it.” Hardison argues.

“What _is_ rabies?” Parker pipes in, and Eliot can’t believe the gaps in that girls knowledge sometimes.

“It’s a disease Parker, you get it from infected animals. If you get it a lot of things can happen, but usually you get scared of water, aggressive and start hallucinating. After the first symptoms you’re dead in a couple of days. No one survives.”

“Ok, but a lot of things can kill you.” The thief argues. “You’re not scared of guns, or crossing the street, or eating mushrooms, those things kill you as well.”

“It’s… Eating mushrooms isn’t dangerous, Parker. Just make sure you eat the right ones.” Even after this long Eliot can never predict that girl.

“Look, a guy in my squad caught rabies when I was still in the military. It took four trained soldiers to restrain him, and he was a kid.” Eliot pauses to let them process that. “Imagine _me_ , hallucinating and aggressive but with complete control over my body.”

Silence reigns on the comms for several seconds. Eliot looks up and finds Dean is watching him, a controlled blank look on his face.

“Um…” Hardison tries, but for once he’s got no more.

“Yeah.” Eliot agrees, and that’s that.

“Dean is still around right?” Parker sounds awfully sure, but then she’s also right.

“Yeah, he is.” Dean raises an eyebrow at Eliot’s answer, understanding he’s talked about.

“Girl, what are you doing?” Eliot can hear Hardison trying to slap Parker’s fingers away from his keyboard.

“I’m just gonna… No, let me…” A small shuffle is heard and then Dean’s phone is ringing.

“That wasn’t me.” Hardison says.

“Yeah?” Dean’s voice is coming from across the room and Eliot’s earpiece at the same time, it’s dizzying.

“Hiya Dean!” Parker chirps. “How are you?”

“Oh you know me, I’m always good.” If Eliot couldn’t see his face he wouldn’t be able to tell the lie.

“So is Eliot telling the truth, is it just a scratch?” Dean looks over at the hitter, and Eliot knows he’s pale and that gauze is covering his entire lower left arm. Still Dean better give the right answer to Parker’s question.

“Yes ma’am, don’t worry about it. I’ll look after him for you.” A crooked grin is sent in Eliot’s direction which he answers with a rude gesture.

“How long before he can come home?” Parker is still speaking to Dean.

“ _He_ is right here.” Eliot reminds her. “And he’ll have to stay put for another 35 hours to get his second injection.”

“Does that mean you’ll make dinner the day after tomorrow?” Hardison sounds hopeful. “Because Parker did tonight and, well… Oh, no baby, I didn’t mean it like that. Cereals are good they just don’t… You know what? Forget it.”

“Smooth Hardison.” Dean says with a real smile and Eliot can’t help his lips twitching upwards as well.

“Uh guys, I better go.” Hardison sounds like he’s in trouble and Parker might have turned her ear bud off because she can no longer be heard. “Dean, look after him, bring him back. Eliot man, same to you. See you soon.” The connection falls quiet and Eliot once again turns off his transmitter.

“And here I thought a bitchy baby brother was hard to live with. I don’t know how you manage it with those two constantly around.” Dean stands from his seat by the table.

“A lot of patience.” At least in the beginning, Eliot thinks, he doesn’t find it hard anymore. It’s years since his constant annoyance around them was more than superficial.

“I bet.” Yet there’s a softening around Dean as he says it that makes Eliot think his two friends are already beginning to slip under Dean’s skin, he knows from experience they are good at that. “You need the bathroom?”

“I’m good.” Eliot waves his hand towards the door. “Go right ahead.” Staying seated for a moment longer sounds far more tempting than getting ready for bed, even if he knows it short-sighted.

The shower can be heard running behind the bathroom door, and Eliot takes a moment to breathe when there is no one around to see him. From his pocket he withdraws the red blister pack with the two pain pills the doctor sent him off with. He twirls it between his fingers and the edges are sharp enough to leave thin white lines where they graze his skin.

If he was to take one of the innocent looking tablets right now he’d probably be asleep in half an hour. That sounds like heaven. The question is if it’s worth the drowsiness and light-headedness it brings. Sleep or security?

Without Dean around the answer would have been security, always and every time. With Dean around, Eliot doesn’t know. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Dean’s skills per se, he just doesn’t trust him to remain sober enough to retain them.

The pain from the bite radiates up into his shoulder when Eliot raises his left arm to rub his face. He throws the blister pack on his nightstand next to his phone and acknowledges that there might not be much sleep tonight. At least the burning sensation in his arm outshines the throb of bruised muscles where Dean’s punches landed.

They switch places in the bathroom once Dean is done, and Eliot washes the smell of the forest out of his hair and brushes his teeth. He didn’t bring more than two sets of clothes, and he’s gotten blood on every long sleeve he has. At least they’re dark in color so he rinses them out in cold water and hopes it’s enough to make the discoloration invisible. The t-shirt doesn’t smell like roses, but it’s stain free and will have to do until he can buy another one tomorrow.

The floor is cold under Eliot’s bare feet as he steps out of the bathroom, something he heavily prefers to warm, fluffy carpets which are a bitch to clean blood out off. Dean is sitting on his bed, back against the headboard and watching tv. “I see you got the good stuff.” Dean nods against Eliot’s nightstand.

“You can have them.” As he says it Eliot realizes that providing an alcoholic with drugs might not be the best thing he can do, but it’s too late to take it back. “I won’t be using them, they make me dull.” He switch off the main lights and sits on the edge of his bed.

“Dude, live a little.” Dean states and underlines it by taking a swig from the bottle he’s holding.

“Yeah.” Eliot agrees, his tone acidic. “That’s the plan. I just figure my chances to do so are better if I can defend myself.”

“Chill Tardar, I’ll fight off any scary burglars for you.” Dean gives him a cocky smile. Before he answers Eliot leans forward and makes sure he’s got Dean’s full attention.

“Trust me Winchester.” He says, voice low and hard. “When they come for me, it won’t be simple burglars. Right now you wouldn’t stand a chance.” Eliot makes a point of looking at Dean’s bottle.

“Jeez, are you paranoid or what?” Dean’s annoyed, but he still screws the cap onto his bottle and tosses it on top of his open duffel. “There, better?” Eliot doesn’t answer, not sure he can trust the gesture.

“Oh, for… Having you toss and turn all night will drive me nuts, just take the damn pill. I’ll lay off the booze if that’s what your Bitchiness demands.”

The anger slides off Eliot like oil off teflon, he’s too tired to hold on to it for long. “Really?” He can’t help but question, and he hears how weary he sounds.

“Do we need to get you a hearing aid?” Dean’s back to his normal smirking self. “I’m a man of my words.”

Eliot sighs and combs a hand through his wet hair as he processes the situation. “Fine.” He concedes, hoping he’s not being stupid. Not able to muster the energy to fight his low blood pressure by getting up again Eliot dry-swallows the white pill.

Ignoring his pride Eliot mutters a “thank you” as he stretches out on the bed. He lies on his back with his head propped up enough to see the eighties movie that’s on, it should provide some distraction until the drugs kick in.

“It’s an act of pure selfishness.” Dean tells him, but Eliot knows that’s not true. If it were up to Dean he’d probably be drunk out of his mind right now, anything to stop thinking about whatever memories he had revisited today. Instead of arguing Eliot turns his focus to the tv.

Thirty minutes of high-school detention drama later a pleasant numbness is spreading through Eliot’s limbs. He sinks down into the bed even as he tells himself not to panic from the way he can no longer hold on to his thoughts. Dean will have his back. Calm down, sleep. It’s working somewhat, not that he have much choice in the matter anyway.

“Hell.” Dean says, and Eliot’s brain tries to wake him back up. “That’s where I went, being dragged back to hell…” This is important, Eliot tells himself. Dean’s telling him about his flashback and Eliot should respond, if he could just move enough to pry his eyes open. “Then that forest was just too much like Purgatory…”

Hell, Purgatory, none of those places are real to Eliot, but then neither were hellhounds before today. Have Dean really been there? As his last coherent thoughts escape him Eliot thinks that Dean must believe he’s already knocked out. Why else would he tell him now?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out to be a bit of a filler, sorry about that. Dean and Eliot just sort of made me do it, so I blame it all on them.

Eliot comes awake slowly with a bad taste in his mouth and his body beginning to remember the ache of beaten flesh and the stinging pain in his left arm. It’s light outside. Reaching out for his cell phone he lights the screen up. Half past eight, no wonder he’s feeling groggy, he’s slept for almost ten hours. Opiates really do a number on him.

“Rise and shine sweetcakes.” Dean greets him from the table, laptop in front of him. “It’s a beautiful day outside.” He reaches out to pull the curtain aside and Eliot is blinded by the sunlight falling across his pillow.

“’M gonna kill ya.” Eliot mumbles as he throws his legs over the side of the bed and sits up. The room blackens and the bed floats under him from the change in altitude. Bending forward he drops his head between his knees as he waits for his racing heart to build up sufficient blood pressure. “Damn I hate blood loss.” He groans at the floor.

“Whatever man.” Dean agrees – or disagrees for all Eliot knows. “I brought you coffee. It might even still be hot, sort of.” The hunter dangles the cup before he focuses back on his computer.

Something is nagging in the back of Eliot’s head, making him feel he’s forgotten something important, but maybe that’s just the meds. Finally able to stand without fainting he walks the few steps over to the table and sinks down in the chair opposite Dean. In the sunlight the man’s skin takes on a grayish tint and his eyes are bloodshot.

“You slept at all?” Eliot questions as he reaches out for his coffee. The paper cup is lukewarm under his hand but the smell as he pops the take-away lid off is heavenly.

“Like a baby.” Dean flips his head in a way that’s meant to be nonchalant but is just jerky. If Dean slept like a toddler it was like one with colic, but Eliot doesn’t call him out on it.

The coffee does wonders in chasing the cobwebs from Eliot’s mind. “Any plans for today?” He asks Dean.

“Not really.” Dean shrugs. “Line up a new hunt, eat pie, get drunk and pick up a pretty girl preferably. Not necessarily in that order.” He adds as an afterthought. Eliot can believe the first three but the girl he’s not so sure about; Dean doesn’t look like he can keep his game face up for that long.

“Did you ever call the rental company? ‘Cause if I get billed for stealing that car I’ll break your legs.”

Dean snorts. “If you say so. Which company?” He types it into a search engine and brings out his phone. “What name did you use?” He asks as he presses the call button.

“Carl Thompson.” Eliot provides, he can already hear the call patching through.

“Good morning miss, my name’s Bernard.” Eliot almost laughs out loud and Dean flips him off. “Yeah I… My friend, his name’s Carl Thompson, he rented a car from you two days ago, I think… Or no, it can’t have been… Maybe a few days before that, I don’t know. It’s been a long night.” Dean manages to be polite but tired and absentminded at the same time. Sophie would be proud.

“Anyway, sorry. It’s… Carl’s a klutz you know, yeah, and he sort of fell off a cliff…” Dean falls silent as he listens to the voice on the other end. “Mhm.” He rolls his eyes for Eliot to see. “Yeah, so a helicopter had to pick us up and now we’re in the hospital. The doctor’s are saying something about swollen brain and he’s kept sedated and you know… I can’t really leave him here alone…” The woman speaks again.

“Yeah.” Dean agrees. “But the car’s just sitting there now, and I know Carl wouldn’t want that and…” As he falls silent again Dean wiggles his eyebrows at Eliot with the thrill of the con written on his face. “I… Thank you so much.” A few more pleasantries are exchanged and the call ends.

“The car’s picked up today, no extra charge.” Dean informs Eliot and for once the smile on his face is genuine enough. “Man, I’m good.”

“You’ll do.” Eliot half-agrees. “But wait until you meet Sophie.” This time the shark grin is all Eliot. “She once did a grift where she did two separate characters in one night, for the same marks.”

“Ah, that’s cute, but does she know how to get rid of a ghost or treat vampire bites?”

“I hope not.” Eliot says, and he means it even as he’s laughing. “We all have our areas of expertise, don’t we?”

They go out for breakfast. The food’s greasy and over salted, and Eliot wishes he’d cooked oatmeal on his camping stove instead. He doesn’t like food that weights him down. Dean only laughs at him when he grumbles about it.

It’s early afternoon when they’re finally back at the motel, t-shirt, iron tablets and laundered clothes in tow. Eliot’s injured arm is hurting and he’s ridiculously winded given how little he’s moved. Trying to convince Dean he’ll be alright by himself is even more futile after Hardison’s intervention yesterday, and Eliot has succumbed to the idea that Dean will be sticking around until they’re back in Portland. He’s not sure how he feels about it.

Dean once again brings out his computer and Eliot settles on his bed, back against the wall. The pain in his arm is still too sharp for proper meditation, and there’s not much else to do. Of the 17 tv-channels only two show sports, golf and tennis at this time of the day, and Eliot turns the set off again.

“Are you just gonna sit there?” Dean questions from his position at the table. Not even ten minutes have passed in silence. Eliot doesn’t answer. “Won’t you get bored?”

“I once spent five months in a prison in Myanmar.” Eliot says with a shrug. “I’m good at making time pass.”

He’s not sure _prison_ is the correct word for where he was, that suggests there were other prisoners. Dungeon might have been a more accurate description. There hadn’t really been much time to pass either, in between interrogations, plain torture, and trying to stay alive but hoping to die. Still Dean doesn’t need to hear any of those things.

“Dude, I don’t even know where Myanmar is. What’d you do to end up there? And how did you get out?” Dean asks.

“Call me dude one more time…” Eliot’s unnamed threat falls emptily between them.

“And what, dude?” Dean laughs at him and moves over to dig for something in his duffel.

The only answer Eliot can come up with is an inarticulate growl. It’s not as if he can even stand up fast enough to take Dean on at the moment. At least he’s gotten them off the subject of Myanmar. He’s gotten so used to Hardison and Parker choosing not to ask that he forgets Dean isn’t so squeamish.

Dean finally finds what he’s looking for and extracts a light brown book from his bag. He holds it out to Eliot. “If you’re still interested in learning more.” He says. The leather is smooth and well worn under Eliot’s fingers as he takes it.

“So your old man served in Vietnam huh?” Eliot taps the ribbons nailed to the inside of the cover. “You know what he did to get the bronze star and Purple Heart?” A shadow of surprise passes Dean’s face as he sits down by his computer.

“Not really.” He admits. “Dad never talked about it.”

“I bet.” Eliot agrees. Warzones sure gave him quite a few things he didn’t talk about, especially not to people he felt he should protect.

“So what, you know every ribbon by heart?”

“Most of them. When you’re about to punch a formally dressed officer in the face it’s always good to know what action he’s seen.” Eliot smiles at the memory of one particular evening at the US embassy in Oslo; that had been a great job.

“You’re a very strange man.” Dean concludes.

The first few pages of the journal are more diary entries than anything else. Eliot deduces that they’re made by Dean’s father at the time when his wife had been killed. It feels weird, almost desecrating, to be reading the desperate scribbles and Eliot’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with it. A glance at Dean shows him nothing but the fact that Dean is once again fully focused on his computer.

Leafing through the pages without really reading Eliot sees how the personal entries fade out and is replaced with newspaper clippings. A short time later the articles begin to get answers about what has happened and Eliot slows down.

Over the course of the day Dean has taken to drinking again and by the time they head out for dinner the effect is noticeable. Unable to shake a feeling of debt from the evening before Eliot doesn’t comment. He hasn’t planned on taking his painkiller tonight anyway; he’s slept enough for awhile. Who is he to tell Dean he can’t drink himself into oblivion?

The hunter takes on his mission with gusto, swapping liquor for beer only with his hamburger before moving back to the heavier stuff. Five glasses later Eliot can’t keep from interfering, previous standpoint be damned. Letting Dean die from alcohol poisoning isn’t part of the plan.

“I’m not bloody carrying you home Winchester.” Eliot drawls and covers the sixth glass with his hand.

“Well good, ‘cause I ain’t planning on going home with you. I don’t swing that way.” Dean smirks and twists the glass free from Eliot’s hand. “I haven’t even had that much.” The tone shifts to conspiratorial as Dean leans forward across the table. “Cas once drank a liquor store you know, like literally. I’m nowhere near that.”

Dean stands and ambles over to the counter, impressively stable given the circumstances. If Eliot didn’t know how much he’d had to drink he would never have guessed it. Nate’s old term ‘functioning alcoholic’ comes to mind.

To stay seated alone while Dean tries to pick up a tall but uninterested blonde at the bar would be pathetic, so Eliot makes his way over to the pool tables. There are a few people hanging out there so he should be able to trick someone into playing him.

For being such a low-key place the competition is surprisingly good. Or rather, one guy is surprisingly good, the others are average at best. As such, after his fourth round of eight-ball Eliot looses the game and his spot at the table. He doesn’t mind very much. The clock’s closing in on eleven and the crowd is starting to get thin. Normal people with normal jobs have to get up in the morning.

Dean is sitting at an overloaded table, alone. Given his blood-shot eyes and vacant stare Eliot is not surprised. There’s enough alcohol in the air around Dean to make a lesser person drunk. Eliot stands next to him and snatches the car keys from the jacket pocket Dean usually keeps them in. The hunter’s reaction time is slowed enough that he’s too late to stop him.

“I’m taking your car back to the motel.” Eliot says. “Are you coming?”

“I told you, I don’t swing that way.” Dean schools his face into a smirk but it’s as slow and crooked as his speech.

“Get a grip Winchester.” Eliot knows he sounds far angrier than he is. Dean came through for him last night and stayed sober, that means Eliot owes him one.

“Watch it or I’ll get a grip around _you_.” Eliot bites his tongue to keep from laughing and raises an eyebrow. Dean scrounges up his face, trying to process what he just said. “That didn’t come out right.” Dean concludes.

“I’m sure it did.” Using his advantage Eliot pokes Dean hard on the arm only to laugh at his attempt to swipe him away. “You’re pathetic.” Eliot says before he turns around and moves toward the exit.

“And you’re an asshole.” Dean grumbles behind him, but at least he’s tagging along.

Dean passes out the second they reach the motel room. From the way his body bounces on the mattress before it becomes still Eliot is sure he lost consciousness well before his head hit the pillow. It’s not nearly the same as real sleep, and far less restful, Eliot knows that from experience. He also knows sometimes you take what you can get.

Had it been someone else, or if he’d been someone else, Eliot might have at least untied Dean’s boots and flipped him over from his stomach. Since Dean’s Dean and Eliot’s Eliot he doesn’t. Dean is breathing and if he’s got a stiff neck in the morning it’s his own damn fault. Eliot’s no babysitter.

Sleeping is overrated in Eliot’s opinion, and after ten hours of it last night he’s still wide awake. Given how his arm is feeling that’s just as good, any sleep tonight is bound to be inefficient at best. He will force himself to rest for a few hours, but habit tells him that the hours from two AM to four in the morning is of most importance. The journal will have to keep him occupied until then.

It’s not until he reads the entry about cross-road deals that Eliot can finally pinpoint the origin of the nagging that’s been in the back of his mind all day. All it takes is one small word squeezed into a sentence, written in a different handwriting and with a different pen. It’s obviously been added at a later date.

_Usually_ , it says. ‘The deal is _usually_ for ten years, after that they get dragged to hell.’ Eliot doesn’t know them well enough to be able to tell if it’s Sam or Dean who added the word, but it doesn’t matter. He remembers now what Dean said the other night, about getting dragged to hell.

The hunter is still passed out, but his eyes are flittering behind the eyelids in a way that whispers of unrest. Eliot wonders how long it’s been, and then realizes it doesn’t matter. Dean was on a revisit last morning. Whatever shit he had managed to bury is most likely back to the surface now. If Eliot could he’d tell him that it’s okay, bury it twice and it stays down. Unfortunately he knows it’s never that easy.

His own religiousness is a long way back by now, and Eliot finds it hard to meet the reintroduction of hell with courage. He’s done too much shit to end up anywhere else if the place does exist. It’s a daunting thought, yet Eliot can’t help but wonder how it compares to the hellholes he’s been in. A voice in his ear whispers that the difference is the eternity. He tries to forget he ever imagined it.

Between his many hours the night before and the pain in his arm Eliot only manages a short period of semi-sleep throughout the night. Given the way the concept of hell keeps rolling around in his head he’s grateful he never gets as far as dreaming.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the last chapter. I honestly don’t know how I feel about this, but hopefully you’ll find it okay. Once again I would like to thank all my reviewers, and all of you who have followed or marked this as one of your favorite stories. Today I finally wrote the statistics exam I’ve been studying for and hopefully that means I’m back to writing the next story in this series soon. I really want to make use of all your input. //ThosePreciousWalls

Trying to convince Dean that he can fly back home is like fitting a grand piano through a roof window. This time there’s even a voiced promise to Hardison, making negotiations all the more futile. In the end it’s all Eliot can do to make sure he’s the one driving.

In a way it worries Eliot that Dean folds so easily, it seems out of character for the man to simply roll over and give another the keys to his car. At the same time the way he winces at high sounds and squints in the light are clear indicators of a massive hang-over, so Eliot might be reading too much into the surrender.

Slouching in the passenger seat with his head angled against the door Dean seems asleep but Eliot knows he’s not. The way he cracks an eye open every time Eliot speeds up or slows down is evidence he’s not completely at ease. Clearly there’s a limit to how much he trusts Eliot with the vehicle he calls his ‘baby’.

It’s a clear danger, being worn out and drunk in Dean’s kind of business, yet there is nothing Eliot can do about it. In a way it scares him that he cares enough to wish there was. Dean has crawled under his skin faster than anyone before, and maybe that’s the way it’ll be now. Maybe Eliot will keep finding new people to care about and as such become weaker and weaker.

The Leverage team has brought Eliot the kind of strength that lies in purpose and belonging, and he wouldn’t trade that for the world. He will have to live with his past for the rest of his life, it’s his atonement. The people who used to be his team and are now his family; they’re what make it bearable.

Eliot’s not beyond admitting that he’d been a machine before that first job. He had stopped killing and laid down the firearms, but he had no way out and no desire to find one. It had been a bleak existence, rich only in liquid assets. Not until later had he realized how dead he’d been.

The bonds he has tied to his team has saved Eliot Spencer in so many ways. At the same time he also knows that if anything will ever truly ruin him it’s those ties, so he’s not exactly elated to have even more people assert such power over him. Yet here he is, unable to just shove Dean out of his life and leave him there. He better not make this flaw regarding Winchester a habit.

By now Eliot figures he’s too submerged in this sticky mess to make it out. What he’s seen and learnt in these last days? Sooner or later he’s going to need Dean as a guide to this new world he now exists in. Besides, Parker is clearly considering Dean family and Eliot could never take that away from her. The hitter sighs and flexes his hand around the steering wheel.

“Hey Tardar? Stop at the next gas station, I need more coffee.” Dean pushes his fingertips into his temple. Eliot huffs.

“Why?” He can’t help but question, taking the chance to get back at Dean for his incessant smirkiness. “I should just let you suffer through the consequences of your actions like the adult you are.”

“Geez Sandra Dee, please don’t tell me you’ve never been drunk?” Dean opens an eye to look at Eliot.

“Oh, I have.” Eliot counters. It comes out darker than planned. “I however managed to stop before it killed me.” Silence falls for a long second.

“Just stop for the fucking coffee.” Dean says and his tone marks the conversation as over.

The takeaway cup Eliot’s sipping from as they roll back onto the highway contains brownish water that he’s not sure can legally be called coffee. It’s bland and overly bitter, and maybe Eliot’s spent too much time abroad to drink gas-station coffee anymore. He wonders how many years it’s been since he last bought it; he should have made them a couple more.

With two hours to Portland and nothing but trees lining the road Eliot finally breaks the silence. They are halfway into their trip and he can’t keep avoiding the subject. It’s gnawing on his mind and the cliché that there’s no time like now haunts him.

“Did you mean it?” Eliot says, and berates himself for the vagueness even as he feels Dean questioning eyes on him.”What you said the other night.” _Spit it out Spencer._ “About going to hell.”

The word hangs in the space between them, a foul-smelling Wunderbaum in the rearview mirror. Hell. The good thing about driving, Eliot thinks, is that you don’t have to look at each other. It’s perfectly logical to keep your eyes on the road.

“Awake for that, were we?” Dean’s question is rhetorical, maybe for buying time. Eliot gives a right-shouldered shrug.

“Not really, I was getting dragged under when you snuck that on me. I didn’t even remember it until I read the page about hellhounds last night.” A risked glance to Eliot’s right reveals Dean is looking emptily in front of him, his face carefully neutral. Eliot moves his eyes back on the road.

“Hm.” Dean vocalizes. It’s not an answer but Eliot doesn’t push, he’s opened up for talking but is not interested in forcing it.

“Guess I know where I’m going then. Hard not to think it’d be better if this was all there was.” Eliot admits.

“Preaching to the choir.” Eliot can feel Dean’s eyes on his face. “I wouldn’t worry if I were you though. As far as I’ve seen you have to do something stupid to end up in the pit.”

“I’m pretty sure ‘thou shall not kill’ is part of the admittance criteria for heaven.” Eliot huffs.

“Nah, that’s bull, you should see the angels man. ‘Thou shall not kill’ – my ass. The only souls I know for sure ends up downstairs are folks who made deals and spirits that turned vengeful. Besides, I think you’re pretty covered on the whole repentance thing.” Dean produce one of his fake grins and under the circumstances Eliot sees it as a good sign.

The answer brings some hope to Eliot regarding the after-life; maybe he’s not completely screwed. In a way he feels guilty for the emotion, sitting next to Dean. “So you made a deal?” He asks to clarify and Dean agrees. “And you went to hell?” That one’s been covered already. “How did you get out?”

“With a little help from my friends.” Dean half sings. “Or friend, not that I knew him at the time. It was a once in a millennia thing, trust me.”

Dean doesn’t offer who or how it happened, and Eliot doesn’t press for details. He knows when something’s omitted by choice. He also doesn’t ask the pressing question of whether Dean will be sent back when he dies. Even if he knows the answer Eliot can bet that’s something Dean prefers not to think about.

“You know what’s funny with you? I tell you the angels are dicks and you don’t bat an eyelash.” It’s a change of subject and Eliot accepts it with a shrug.

“What’s so funny about it?” Eliot asks and glances at Dean. For the first time since the conversation started their eyes meet.

“Most would tell me they don’t exist, hell I didn’t believe it even after having dealt with demons for years. Anyone religious enough to buy into their existence would deny that they’re mean sons of bitches. You however just take it at face value.” By Dean’s string of words it seems his hangover is finally residing, the coffee might have had its use after all.

“Yeah? Three days ago I was sure _all_ of this was bullshit. You say angels exist and are assholes, then fine. Stranger things have happened, or so I hear.” It’s as true as it’s simple. Dean could use his blind trust to give him hell and feed him all kinds of crap about the supernatural but Eliot bets he won’t, the hunter takes his job far too seriously.

“So have I told you ET is real?” Dean’s tone is teasing. “And gremlins…”

Eliot tells him to piss off.

The conversation of movies versus reality lasts them almost the whole way to Portland before they roll through the suburbs in silence. “How do I tell them?” Eliot finally asks as he stops at a red light not far from the city center.

“You don’t.” Dean says, which is decidedly unhelpful.

Eliot wishes he could agree but he can’t lie to Hardison and Parker, not about this. He’s all for maintaining their innocence in some areas, but to keep this from them would be unforgiveable. “Not an option.” He says.

“Well good luck with that.” Dean chimes and Eliot is reminded of how much he still wants to properly punch the man.

“You are the most annoying person I’ve ever met.” Eliot snaps, he could use some honest advice here.

“Look Tardar, I have no idea because I don’t tell anyone, ever. Either they find out by themselves or they won’t believe me. This shit _ruins_ people, it’s better for them not to know.” There’s a fever in Dean’s voice that leads Eliot to believe he knows what he’s talking about.

“I’m still telling them.” It’s the end of the discussion and Eliot feels he should never have brought it up. He has no idea what’s happened to cement Dean’s belief in the matter, and as such he can’t really question it. Maybe it’s enough to know that almost everyone Dean knows are dead.

This time Eliot does ask Dean to stay, at least for dinner. Something tells him it’s not wise to leave Dean alone with his own thoughts for very long, the other man is still exuding something dark and unstable that probably shouldn’t be allowed to reign unchecked. Eliot knows where he’s ended up when he’s been in similar moods and he can only hope Dean will manage to avoid the worst pits.

Dean only smirks at him. “Hell no.” He replies. “No offence man, but you’re about to open a can of shit in there, I’d rather be in the next state by the time it hits the fan.”

“They will be pissed if you don’t at least say hi.” Eliot tries, after all it’s a card Dean’s been using against him for days now.

“Parker maybe, but she’ll survive.” Dean doesn’t mention Hardison, and Eliot wonders if things will always be tense between them. He has hope they will put it all behind them eventually, even if waving guns and being a carbon-copy of your brother’s murderer might take a while to get past. Maybe that’s okay, at least they both seem willing to try.

“Besides, there’s something down in Redmond killing people by spontaneous combustion, could prove to be interesting.” Eliot bites back a sigh as Dean smiles dishonestly once again. “Say hi from me.”

“You know where to find us.” Eliot says and it’s something in between a statement and a question. Does Dean even have their cell phone numbers?

“Yes Sir.” Dean answers with a botched up salute.

“You don’t… That’s not even… Just don’t! Okay?” Eliot slaps Dean’s hand away from the man’s forehead and Dean laughs at him.

“You’re a prude Tardar, now run to your little friends. Shoo.” He makes a sweeping gesture with his hands to get Eliot out of the car.

Eliot should put up a fight about Dean driving, it’s still just after lunch and there’s no way he’s decently sober for another couple of hours. It’s not a battle he has much chance of winning though, and Eliot has a habit of not starting anything when the odds are against him. This way he can step out of the car because he chooses to do so, not because he’s been defeated.

“Take care Winchester.” Eliot offers before he closes the car door.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’ll see you around.” Dean slides across the front seat to the driver side and turns the key. He’s got the car rolling even before Eliot’s finished slamming the trunk shut after grabbing his backpack.

The Impala fades into the traffic with ease and disappears. Eliot allows himself one deep breath before he turns towards the pub, steeling himself. This is going to suck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I will end it here. My thoughts when writing this series is that it will focus on Eliot and Dean, as such it ends now that Dean has left. I believe you’ll get a hint about how the conversation went next time I see you; in the meantime I’m sure you can use your imagination.
> 
> A question: For the next story I’m thinking about writing a small part (a prelude really) from Dean’s point of view. What do you think about that? I have a hard time deciding since this was supposed to be exclusively from Eliot’s POV, but at the same time I can’t get Dean’s voice out of my head…


End file.
